


The Devil's Very Own Brood

by AlmesivaMoonshadow



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 3
Genre: Amorality, Canonical Child Abuse, Chauvinism, Child Neglect, Drug Abuse, Dysfunctional Family, Father-Son Relationship, Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Infanticide, Organized Crime, Other, Parent-Child Relationship, Period-Typical Racism, Prequel, Prostitution, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-12 01:40:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7079383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmesivaMoonshadow/pseuds/AlmesivaMoonshadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back when Hoyt was born, Cobus Volker was merely an inch away from putting a swift, searing bullet into his tiny motherfucking forehead in an act of sheer, all-consuming rage - the only thing staying his righteous, vengeful hand from systematic infanticide was the fact that he genuinely preferred the idea hating the boy for the rest of his life rather then the mere fragment of a millisecond it took to pull a goddamn trigger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil's Very Own Brood

**Johannesburg, South Africa, 1967**

 

 

 

 

_ ~"The most precious jewels you'll _

_ ever wear around your neck _

_ are the arms of your child."~ _

 

 

 

__

* * *

 

 

He was a skinny, drained, mangled thing right from the start, a weeping, screaming, mucus-covered, sickly-looking infant-frog, human only in theory, a cockroach in every other sense – barely a goddamn pound to him – the tiniest, scrawniest, most wretched, bloodiest thing the midwives, the doctors and the nurses have ever beheld when the scalpels, and the knives and the cold, polished, surgical blades cut him out of his whore mother's ripped, deformed, inflated belly like a newly-crowned, anointed murder in the making, measured, cleaned and marked even as he bawled with a sharp, echoing shriek that tore through hospital room's gray, monotonous walls like a grandiose, gloating victory call – or an outright lamentation. Grieving for the dead and the damned all alike. The dearly departed. The much beloved. A hellish, infernal scream. Perhaps the little bastard knew it was a killer. A victimizer. A tormentor. A torturer. Barely an hour old and already a butcherer of his own flesh. Of his own family. Of his own kin. Of his own kind. Reverse-fucking it's mother straight to an early grave through his own birth. Pushing his way into the world through an infected, overused hooker's cunt. A literal son of a whore. How very fitting – metaphors be damned. Of course the personnel didn't give too many shits when it came to patients dying on the table. They died everyday. All the time. Coloreds. Whites. Blacks. Humans and sub-humans. All walks of life. Everywhere and everyone. There was little hope, salvation or remedy for that in this part of the world. Little actual aid. Little actual solution. Little genuine empathy. And she? When she told him she told him she was with child, he beat her until she couldn't stand up. A belt. A slap. A kick. A spit. A punch, straight across the face. Cobus Volker had hoped, internally, that she would have a miscarriage, whether it's his or not. That she would lose the unwanted, unnecessary load. Crawl back into the muddy, dark maggot hole from whence she came. Where whores lay in wait. Bother him no more. Remain silent on the issue. Stay her venomous tongue. Solve it like any other woman would. A prostitute always had her ways and a prostitute would always dig for profit. She wouldn't be the first broad to pursue him under the guise of fatherhood, drooling, struggling, scrounging and lactating over the money bills, the white powder, the diamonds, the possibilities, the gifts, the presents, the envy of all the other bitches this goddamn rat-hole was capable of scrounging up and coughing out like the sticky, warm feverish saliva on a dying man's tongue. Johannesburg was the breeding ground of her type and they all claimed to have a bastard or two in waiting for him in exchange a fair paycheck and a line or two of God's very own special gift to humanity.

 

 

  
But, that little bastard was tough – he refused to die. To rot in the womb. To fall sick inside of her belly. Fall ill to the slashings and the whippings. To get tangled in the fleshy, uncut line of his own cord. To bleed out through her worm-infested hole like the nothing that he was. Down the toilet drain he goes, like any shit and every shit. Stubborn kid, Cobus mused with a certain dosage of entertainment, gleeful predispositions and the willingness to laugh out loud, as he barely prevented himself from lighting a cigar in the middle of the hospital wing's hallway despite of the no-smoking sign plastered out on the ceramic, clinical wall alongside a "whites only" notification there to separate monkey from man like any civilized society would and should, forcing him to saunter outside – big steps, proud steps – the steps of a newly-made father and something of a wealthy, renown bachelor who just ended up deprived of his favorite, long-time collection of cum-slots. He never even knew her name. Her real name. Her actual name. Her birth-name. He never bothered to ask. He never cared. He never gave a damn. It was always this or that. Some artistic pseudonym, some semi-suggestive nickname, some perverted code-word, some lewd title worthy of any cheap city bawdy-house, something to spur apatites and cravings and male desires. Behind the self-created facade, she could have been an Aletta, an Anje, an Ananka, an Ankia, an Adeila, an Awande or an Aneke and it still wouldn't matter as a whole. She failed her job. Part of her goddamn, motherfucking obligation to him, as the customer. To make certain no repercussions of their meetings ever occur outside of their mutually-beneficial business together. She landed him with something he didn't require, didn't ask for, didn't need and she was lucky enough he didn't put a cap between her eyes before she could even spread her legs to bring forth her blasted wedlock cub – and while he was idly standing in the hospital's parking lot, taking a long, large drag out of his lit Cohiba, his men patrolling the perimeter around his parked jeep, he named him Hoyt inside of his own mind. Blasted creation. Demon spawn. A stick, the name meaning. How very appropriate. Suitable. Hilarious, even. Sheer comedy. He was a skinny little goblin anyhow. Ugliest baby he ever set his goddamn eyes on. Small enough to fit into the palm of his hand with the crook of his neck crushed beneath his fingers. It would be a surprise if he survived past his own infancy, in fact, Volker wished he didn't. It would be preferable if he didn't. Very much so. Would have saved him a swift, numb hurl of a miner's pick-axe directly to the boy's skull if it ever came down to that. Settling the score, as it was.

 

 

He didn't want to be a father - he killed fathers.  
His work description - finished through whatever method he saw fit.  
Drugs, guns, bullets, fists and the exploitation of cheaply-payed manual laborers.  
That was the actual truth of the matter, business couldn't afford any of this sentimental bullshit.  
He already had children, thousands of them, inside the bowels of the earth, in hidden places beneath the core of the ground.  
They shimmered, they sparkled, they were eternal and the embedded they edge of his favorite lighter clasped between the tip of his coarse fingers.

 

  
The distant, quiet thunder roared high above the cloud-embittered sky – a common occurrence in this part of Africa after the searing, mind-shattering otherworldly summer heat warmed up the asphalt and boiled the air into an unbearable mash of vapor, fumes, smog and gas dancing around Cobus' head like an aura of calculation, numbers and recollection the moment one of his men leaned in whispered something silent, discreet, near-incoherent into his ears while a curtain of hard tobacco smoke danced around his lips like the silhouettes of an oncoming twilight. A reminder. A side-note; Botswana. Rhodesia. Namibia. Leboa-Sako. Bowa-Seko. The UAC. King Nyere. The Jackal. Civil wars. Funding both sides. Pitting them against each other. War-profiteering. Genocide. Ethical cleansing. Diamond trading deals. Arms-smuggling. Oil companies from South America. Drug-distribution, the A + quality. Straight from Columbia. The best of the best. Tested and tried. This and that. A little bit of everything. He took freedom out of his schedule just to be here. A goddamn waste. A goddamn annoyance. He had places to be. Better things to do. The waiting line was getting bigger and bigger with each passing fragment of a second. Time was money. So, when they brought him the boy, the wiggling prince of the parking lot, wrapped in a hospital sheet and brought out through the shady, torn back-door of the run-down, busy facility all he could only snort and huff at the little bastard, wrung straight out of the incubator before it was recommendable to do so, the nurses and the doctors bribed to authorize an early release despite of all commonplace norm and every-day regulations. Nothing a good buck couldn't solve. Nothing a finer dosage of cash couldn't achieve when the boy nearly ended up being tossed to the backseat of the black, bullet-proof, tinted jeep with one of his newer whores waiting as she breastfed him with a trollop's milk. An imported, Belgian piece of white, European meat, or so the trafficker said. A whore's child, nourished by a whore's tit. Admirable. Indeed. Cobus never even looked back from his front seat as he signaled his men to drive away. Never even took out a minute to observe his own creation. If he dies, he dies, he thought. Let him. No sympathy for the devil. No sympathy for the devil's mother. For all Volker was concerned, his duty was done, his name clear, his hands purer then Pontius' during the crucifixion of the Lord himself and his subconscience clouded, foggy and full of rage when the baby started crying yet again, on cue, frightened by the fierce, loud rumbling of the thunders and the rain-shower hitting against the windows of the car. He wanted the damnable thing silent. Quieter, paler, whiter and colder then it's dead mother.

 

 

His imagination ran wild.  
Red stains dripping off walls.  
Glassy, expressionless child-like eyes.  
Not even opened, yet already silent and still.  
A smaller grave next to a freshly-dug, grander one.  
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to commemorate.  
Cobus' palm sore, he wanted to hit something – he wanted to hit something badly.  
His gaze met the tiny bundle pushed against the woman's exposed, heaving, hanging chest.  
Greedily suckling the harlot's milk out of the tip of a brown, oversized nipple.  
Hoyt - it's name like a razor-blade cutting the edge of his tongue.  
Acerbic, coarse, ugly-sounding, rough and crude.  
He hated the little fucker already.

 

_-"When we get back, have her things tossed out immediately. Have it gone! Removed! I don't want that shit around anymore. It reeks of that goddamn, dead strumpet. Reeks of the streets. Bloody disgusting! Makes a man's stomach lurch!"-_

 

He ordered his mercenary on the backseat.  
Turning his cold stare back to the chauffeur next to himself.  
A non-chalant, careless, calm, detached sort of demand, as usually.  
Wanting the remnants of the departed mother cleaned out like the plague.  
Swallowed by the seamless, pitch, warm darkness of the straight night ahead of them.  
And the wailing of her spawn, rocked back and forth in Jezebel's decorated, needle-pierced arms.


End file.
